


It - something

by Litaraniel



Category: Pet Shop of Horrors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:28:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Litaraniel/pseuds/Litaraniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's funny, in a not-funny way. Leon shouldn't be where he is. Shouldn't be doing what he does. Only he absolutely must. That is, until he remembers. Or, perhaps, especially then.</p>
<p>I dunno. A drabble? I blame sleep-deprivation. Totally. Rated for - well what do you expect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	It - something

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Это... как-то](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4557486) by [Litaraniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Litaraniel/pseuds/Litaraniel)



> Disclaimer: All Petshop of Horrors characters belong to the esteemed Akino Matsuri. No monetary gain out of it, just my own selfish pleasure.  
> Warning: went crazy with the formatting.

It's funny – in a not-funny way – that Leon doesn't even remember how he ended up here.

He's been to the winding corridors a couple of times before, not often enough to make any sense of what was where, but enough to know he was unable to reliably navigate his way down them.

So it makes no sense for him to be here in the depths of the petshop, having entered what should have been an entirely random set of doors.

It's funny – in a not-funny way – that he should find himself rooted to the spot by the sight, not of some toothed, clawed, exotic, rare (and of course, illegal) dangerous creature about to attack him, but the very person it was supposedly the best and unlikely lucky outcome for him to find.

Only.

Only not like that.

 

It would be, of course, ridiculously cliché, confusing, embarrassing, and thus entirely expectable for Leon to find D by stumbling into his bedroom.

It's not.

Not a bedroom, the room is.

It's nearly empty. A couple of lamps that give soft, barely-there light. A folding screen at the back.

And something low, rectangular in the middle, with a surface that looks flat, but soft.

 

D is sitting there – straight, but not tense, hands lying neatly at his sides, palms down – and looking calmly at Leon. Not the fake, arrogant sort of calm that comes from exercising self-control (in face of ill-mannered, impolite, unrefined detective Orcot), but the genuine kind, from being completely, entirely at peace.

And it looks like –

And it is.

 

Leon knows, with startling clarity, what is going to happen.

And he can't find it in himself to try and change the course.

To object.

To deny.

To question, at least.

There's no space for such.

Not for "he doesn't", or "he wouldn't", or "he's not like that".

Not for "drugs", or "human-trafficking", or "shady deals".

Not for handcuffs or…

His mind stutters. That wasn't what he thought about.

And that was.

But.

Not even handcuffs.

It's not about that.

Not in this – resigned, devoid of serenity – peace.

 

It's not a bedroom, and D isn't naked. Not even "scantily clad" as such. He's wearing a silk robe, scarlet, with crimson flowers on it. It's long enough to cover his legs all the way to his feet. It's closed decently on his chest.

Leon has seen D wear more revealing clothes in the day.

Only.

D is usually wrapped in multiple layers of fabric. There are slim pants underneath his dresses. At times there are sheer undershirts with flowing sleeves, and at other times there are jackets thrown over.

But at the moment, that opaque but thin layer of silk is the only thing that covers D's body.

There's inexplicable intimacy in that, somehow more than in nudity.

And that.

That was what stopped him when he came in.

That.

Petrifies Leon.

Draws him forth.

He wishes – not – that he was actually unable to move.

The robe isn't tied. The sash lies behind D's back in a loose arc, as if it has just fallen there.

Maybe.

It will slide apart if he stands. If he moves at all. The fragile balance of the garment's position is in screaming contrast with D's elegant, relaxed posture. With his hands lying calmly by his sides.

Calmly. So calmly.

He's not holding it. Normally, when caught in a compromising situation, D would cover, would hold his clothes together, would demand privacy, sprout accusations or excuses…

He's not.

Not caught in a compromising situation.

And if it was a set-up, one of those things he's done to mess with Leon _("adult sex education class"_ , anyone?), he'd be smirking, smug, mocking…

He's not.

Not messing, either.

There's nothing misguided or inappropriate about this. It just happens.

D is letting it happen.

And Leon – making it happen is apparently what he's going to do.

 

* * *

 

And Leon remembers, they've been educated in the force – hand in hand with "sexual harassment" and "discrimination" topics.

He knows that –

_It's not "they agree unless they state otherwise", it's exactly opposite_

He should be aware –

_"a man is not entitled"_

He remembers –

_"enthusiastic consent"_

That he needs –

_"express permission"_

And possibly a _written agreement_.

 

None of it matters at the moment.

 

And he makes a step.

 

* * *

 

_Leon wishes_ , as he pulls gently on D's hand, _that he could stop_.

_Because_ , as D stands and red silk pours from him to the floor, _he's ruining their friendship_.

_Shattering it_ , as his hands slide into D's hair.

_Destroying it_ , as their lips meet.

They aren't friends.

Weren't friends.

_But they were something that wasn't this._

Something that included Chris, and tea, and sweets, and crazy fairytales, and mad chases, and rows, and accusations, and support, and comfort, and even mutual risking their lives – and unspoken rules, and that safe kind of distance.

_And it falls apart_ under his hands as he slides them down D's back, _it falls into small, brittle shards._

Leon would be doing less damage to this something by smashing D's favourite tea-set.

But as D's head tips back, D's nails scrape lightly on Leon's still clothed shoulder, D's nimble fingers undo the tie in Leon's hair, _he's letting the pieces fall_.

Leon wishes he could stop.

He can stop.

But it's imperative that he doesn't.

Because if he does then this ends.

Everything ends.

And he has no idea just how much "everything" encompasses.

 

As soon as Leon's shoulder is no longer clothed, the sharp-nailed hold resumes.

 

* * *

  

"My dear Detective," D murmurs, and if that always put Leon a little on edge, now he knows why.

And if it always pleased him a little, now he knows why.

 

* * *

 

It's funny – in a not-funny way – that Leon doesn't even remember how he returned home.

 

It's… something, in a way that it's not, only Leon cannot quite find a suitable word, – when he remembers that it's been

28 days

since D

is gone.

 

The scratches on his shoulder sting just a bit.


End file.
